


Another Year Older (But Not Necessarily Wiser)

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes and related fandoms
Genre: Birthdays, Childhood Memories, Fluff, M/M, Mild Angst, mycroft is a klutz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:24:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Mycroft's birthday, and Greg planned him a party. Mycroft hates parties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Year Older (But Not Necessarily Wiser)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MystradeSexyTimes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MystradeSexyTimes/gifts).



Mycroft let out a loud sigh and rubbed his eyes, as he walked up the stairs to the door to his flat, turning the key in the lock. He glanced up at the clouds that signalled incoming rain and sighed; he'd had a horrid day, filled with shouting at other government officials, long hours spent slumped over at his desk, and a headache tugging at the back of his mind. It didn't help that today was his birthday, and not only had his lover been excruciatingly nice, something the government official had always despised. If one wasn't kind the rest of the year (well, Gregory was, but he was the exception to the rule) then what good was it to be nice to someone just because it was their birthday? It never made sense to him. Then again, a lot of the traditional birthday celebrations didn't make sense to him. 

He slowly opened the door, dreading what was to come. He had always used his birthday as a day to quietly reflect on the accomplishments he had made during the past year, and formulate new ways to improve himself. Gregory's idea of a fun birthday was to throw a huge party with people Mycroft didn't particularly like at all. The only reason he even associated with any of his colleagues at work was because he was forced to; he didn't particularly like anyone there, save for Anthea. He also disliked most of Gregory's colleagues, excluding John and Sherlock. The rest of them could jump off a cliff, for all he cared. 

The ginger knew that Greg was throwing him a surprise party; he was a Holmes, after all, and he had figured it out months before. He'd been dreading this day for months because of it, because he absolutely, with every fiber of his being, _hated_ surprise parties. Mycroft liked to be in control of every aspect of his life. The prospect of being forced to smile and shake hands with people he never in a thousand years would have invited to celebrate his birthday with him made him nearly sick with disgust, and maybe even a little anxiety. There was a reason he had never taken Gregory up on any of his offers to visit him at the Yard, instead making excuses that he had treaties to sign. The DI had bought into the lies, thank god, but the government official knew he couldn't keep this up forever; Greg may not be a genius, but he certainly wasn't stupid. 

Mycroft pushed open the door, bracing himself for the inevitable chorus of 'surprise', but it never came. Instead, the flat looked relatively quiet, and the government official dared to hope for a moment that his lover had decided to forego the party.

"Surprise!"

The loud, surprising chorus of voices startled the ginger, and he jumped nearly a foot in the air. As he was landing, his left foot clipped the side of his umbrella stand, causing him to land awkwardly on the side of his ankle, a loud crack echoing throughout the room. A bolt of pain shot through his leg, and he opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out.

"Oh my god, Mycroft!" his lover's voice rose above the worried whispers and shouts of the other guests, pushing past them to get to his injured partner.

"Gregory...?" Mycroft gasped as another wave of pain travelled up his leg and into his hip, and fell silent.

"Mycroft, Christ! Are you alright?"

"Obviously not," the government official snapped, "I'm quite sure I've broken my ankle."

"Christ," the DI muttered, "John, come take a look at this."

"Gregory, I'm alright, really-"

Mycroft fell silent as John approached, a look of concern and what looked like sympathy on his face. "Everybody else, go wait in the other room," Greg commanded, shooing the guests who hadn't already left out of the room.

John knelt down next to the government official and rolled up his trouser leg, carefully removing one of his expensive shoes before prodding at his ankle.

"Be careful!" Mycroft cried, feeling the pain returning tenfold, instinctively pulling his leg away from John's grip.

"Hey, hey," the doctor replied, grasping Mycroft's calf and pulling it back towards him, "I think it's broken, mate. Better get him to the hospital." he said to Greg, a grimace crossing his face as he saw the extent of the damage to Mycroft's ankle. "Yeah, it's broken," he murmured, running his hands over the rapidly swelling joint, "Doesn't look like a bad break, though, so you should be alright."

"Thanks so much for your medical opinion," Mycroft snapped, "Now if you two don't mind." He tried to roll over onto his stomach, and was rewarded with another wave of pain, causing him to cry out. "Easy, love," the DI murmured, running his hand over Mycroft's shoulder, "We'll go to the hospital, yeah? Get that looked at."

"I don't have time for broken bones, I have to be in Boston on Thursday!"

"We'll get you there, alright, Christ," the DI muttered, "For now, relax."

Mycroft folded his arms and sneered, not caring how petulant he looked. "What a way to spend a birthday." he muttered, "John, thank you for your services.

The doctor just nodded, used to dealing with Holmes moods, gave Greg a sympathetic look, and left, corralling a few stray guests who had wandered back in into the other room.

***

Three hours and an excruciating ER visit later, Mycroft was on his way back to his flat, still sulking, his ankle wrapped in a cast. "Sorry about this, love," the DI murmured nervously, "Not the best way to spend a birthday."

"I told you I hated surprise parties," the government official muttered, reaching down to absentmindedly scratch at his ankle, then letting out a surprised grunt as his hand smacked the cast. "Damn it!" he swore, rubbing at his knuckles. Greg raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

"You swore? Christ, you _are_ cranky."

"Shut _up_!" Mycroft snapped, "The reason I'm in this bloody cast is because of you, because you never _listen_ to me! I hate parties, and I hate surprise parties even more. The only people I would have remotely been able to tolerate were you, Sherlock, and possibly John. All the rest of them can go jump in the lake!"

"Hey, come on, they were trying to be nice. They wanted to celebrate with you."

"Well I despise celebrations. I told you how much I hated parties, and yet you still threw me one. For what purpose, exactly?!"

Greg opened his mouth to speak, then decided against saying whatever it was he had planned. "Nevermind," he murmured, reaching over and giving Mycroft's leg a squeeze, "Just...yeah, nevermind. It's fine."

"What?" Mycroft asked irritably, "You may as well tell me now, otherwise I'll drive you insane trying to deduce it."

"Sherlock mentioned once that you two didn't have birthday parties as kids. I thought this might be nice." the DI murmured, staring out the window of the car. Mycroft's heart stopped. "He...did?" he murmured, biting his lip; Sherlock had most likely deleted the birthday parties they'd had as children, as they had been rather dreadful. Mycroft recalled one (his sixteenth birthday, in fact) where his father had given him diet pills as a birthday present. That had been rather pleasant, he thought bitterly; what a lovely way to treat your already-insecure and overweight child.

"We didn't get to have surprise parties," the ginger lied, "But...thank you for your effort."

"Well, if you didn't have surprise parties, how do you know you dislike them?"

Mycroft bit the inside of his cheek; "I...ah..."

The DI sat back. "What happened? Were they really that bad?"

"They were horrid," Mycroft sighed, defeated, "They were basically like the Hunger Games, and I apologize for using that pop culture reference, but it's true. Forcing an entire family of geniuses to socialize under the roof of one manor, and watching them deduce and attack each other until there was nothing left of our already-strained relationships wasn't exactly my idea of an enjoyable experience. And they took every opportunity to be, shall we say, horrid."

"I'm almost afraid to ask." the DI murmured as the car pulled up to Mycroft's flat. He hopped out of the car and helped Mycroft slide over, handing him his crutches. He thanked the driver, then gave the side of the car a tap, signaling for the man to drive away.

Once they were inside the flat, the DI managed to get Mycroft into the bedroom with no further accidents, inwardly sighing at all the cleaning up he'd have to do the next day. 

"You alright?" he asked as soon as the ginger was settled into his bed. "Fine." Mycroft muttered, rolling his eyes.

"So...I'm afraid to ask, but how horrid were they? The parties, I mean."

Mycroft sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. "I would really rather not talk about them."

"But...Alright." Greg murmured, reaching over to turn off the light. He toed off his shoes and slid under the covers next to his lover, wrapping his arms around the ginger's pudgy waist.

Mycroft sighed softly at the contact, relaxing at the feeling of his lover's arms around him. He turned over in Greg's arms and rested his head on Greg's shoulder, closing his eyes. The DI smiled; when they first begun dating, he had been surprised at how much of a cuddler the younger man was. He had expected Mycroft to be more like Sherlock; cold, calculating, distant. He had been pleased to find out he was wrong. He sighed and ran a hand over Mycroft's spine, pressing his nose into the sweet-smelling ginger waves.

The ginger wrapped his arms around his lover's waist and pressed his lips to the side of the DI's neck. "My father gave me diet pills as a sixteenth birthday present," he whispered, "In front of my entire family. What a lovely way to build up the self-esteem of an already overweight and picked on adolescent, hm?"

Greg tightened his grip on Mycroft. "He's a twat," he muttered, "I've seen your childhood pictures. You weren't fat."

"Well, obviously the _excruciatingly_ observant Holmes clan thought differently." Mycroft snapped.

"Hey," the DI murmured, reaching up to cup Mycroft's chin in his hand, "You weren't fat, and he was a dick." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's lips.

"Well, at least you know now why I hate parties." Mycroft murmured against the DI's lips. 

"Yeah, yeah. Next time I'll ask you before throwing you a surprise party."

"Gregory, I'm a Holmes. I knew you were going to throw me a party before you did." 

The DI flushed, then smiled. "I think the pain meds are getting to your head. You should sleep."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course, you'd try to shut me up. It's just The Man trying to keep me down." he said in a mocking tone.

Greg barked out a laugh. "You _are_ 'The Man', you idiot. Go to sleep." 

Mycroft huffed, then closed his eyes. "Fine. Bossy."

"Look who's talking."

"Shut up. And don't throw me any more parties."

"Alright, alright. Go to sleep. I love you."

"I love you too."

"...Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed, opening one eye to glare at the DI. "Yes?"

"I never gave you your present."

"What was it?"

"Eh, it's stupid."

"Gregory."

The DI grimaced, then scrubbed a hand over his face. "You know how you've been doing that new workout, and that c25k thing?"

"Yes, but I won't be able to finish it now. What does that have to do with my present?"

"Everything."

"What did you get me?"

The silver-haired man grinned sheepishly, the tips of his ears turning pink.

"Running shoes."


End file.
